Your Name
by Elie.N.P
Summary: Augusta Longbottom had just passed on the torch to him – still with the firm intention to keep an eye on him.  one-shot


**This one-shot is about Neville. I love his character and think he deserves stories to be written about him. I hope you'll enjoy your reading.**

**(I apologize for the mistakes. English isn't my native language)**

**Elie**

* * *

><p><span>Your Name<span>

Weak and insignificant, a coward, never the hero, nor the strong one. He'd never know celebrity or glory. He wasn't courageous, and when he was about to put his life on the line, he always backed away, his head lecturing his passionate heart, both reminding him his grandmother had nobody left but him and that there was no turning back when facing Death. Was he ready to take such a huge risk?

He closed his eyes and sighed. He had never been ready to do such a thing.

He wanted to fight but never succeeded in mustering the necessary courage, the necessary strength to do so. He always yielded to his cowardice.

He wished people would only call him Neville, he didn't think he deserved his surname. Longbottom was a famous name, a respected one. A name Neville was both proud and ashamed to bear.

Proud because of his parents, of his grandmother, proud because he was thus linked with brilliant, clever and determined people. People who fought for their beliefs, people who hadn't hesitated to risk their life for others' sake – Neville knew, even if she'd never openly admit it, that his grandmother wouldn't hesitate to stand between him and a forbidden curse to save him. She'd die for him like his parents had died for others.

Ashamed because he wasn't worthy of it. Had he ever done anything else than following the normal – dull – course of his life? No, absolutely nothing else. Nothing which mattered. Nothing which could justify his bearing such an important patronymic. Nothing, he was nothing...

Neville glanced at his grandmother reading near the fireplace. Her frail body was bent over a worn-out book, her eyes screwed behind her spectacles in order to decipher the words, her shoulders wrapped up in a warm shawl, protecting her from the bitter cold she was the only one to feel.

The shawl, the book, her glasses, all were worn-out, exhausted by years of use. Years, she had taken care of him for years and was still able to stand on her own.

His grandmother had never begged for any help, never asked him to grow up faster, to be more mature, she'd never allowed him to have a different childhood, a sad one, a tough one. She'd done her best to preserve him.

Neville saw it now, how hard she'd been treating herself to offer him the best, the way she was slightly shaking, the difficulties she had to breath even though it wasn't that cold, the way her hands were clenched around the book, fighting not to let it fall on her knees.

His grandmother was exhausted. However she'd never yield to her sense - which was certainly screaming at her to slow the rhythm. She'd never care about her before caring about him, think about her future rather than about his.

Her sense was without a doubt lecturing her as much as his head always lectured his heart when he was about to do something reckless. The difference was that Augusta Longbottom, contrary to him, Neville – just Neville, never yielded.

How long would she still be able to follow such a tough rhythm? How long would she still fight for them both? How long would he take him to react?

Neville dug his nails into his palms when the book slid from her trembling hands. Augusta Longbottom needed somebody by her side, somebody she could rely on, somebody else than a useless grandson...

"If you keep having bad thoughts you will never be able to do anything."

His eyes jerked up to meet his grandmother's. She was intensively staring at him.

"Pull yourself together," Augusta continued as if she was talking about the weather. "You're Neville Longbottom after all. To brood doesn't suit you."

Neville had his mouth half-open but she didn't allow him to say anything.

"Go pack your things," she ordered. "You go back to Hogwarts tomorrow, you don't want to be late, do you? Everything needs to be ready. It's a new start. You need to be ready for a new start."

Did the words his grandmother had just said mean what he thought they meant?

Neville relaxed in his seat. Of course they meant it. They meant what her heart felt, not what her behaviour always seemed to say.

The pressure weighing on his shoulders suddenly disappeared. The message was crystal clear. She'd called him Neville Longbottom for he belonged, indeed, to the Longbottoms.

He was Neville Longbottom, a Hogwarts student, a boy of seventeen, a boy who still had a long way to go, Augusta Longbottom's grandson. His heart swelled with pride as he took in the true weight of her words.

Her words, her acknowledgement, her trust were enough for him to fight his fears, to defy his shame.

His grandmother was proud of him. He should have seen it earlier but her way of showing it had never been obvious, and would certainly never be thus, because to make many compliments, to praise people, to comfort their pride wasn't how she worked. He should have known it. He knew it now.

"Don't forget to write from time to time."

Their eyes met again. Neville smiled.

"I won't," he promised.

He had been wrong, Augusta Longbottom might be tired, but she was far from being exhausted. Her piercing gaze, her sharp wits – she'd guessed his thoughts without him pronouncing a single word - were the sole proof he needed to be reassured.

"Longbottoms are never coward when they do what they think is right."

Neville didn't ask what she meant by such words, for he had already understood.

What mattered wasn't what had been made of his name, but what he would make of it himself.

Augusta Longbottom had just passed on the torch to him – still with the firm intention to keep an eye on him.

**The End**


End file.
